I Hate Supreme
No, I don’t actually hate Supreme. On many levels I love Supreme, but I do hate what it has become. I know, at this point my position is a tired one. Every oldhead and their mother is off Supreme. The modern Supreme customer has been a joke for so long that Emily Oberg has retired from Complex and is now consuming more meds than my valium-addicted, dementia-riddled grandmother. However, yesterday morning the travesty known as the spring/summer 2020 preview dropped and I was so appalled that I couldn’t help but write about it.
Admittedly, I got into Supreme late - not until I was 16. Every season I’ve made the habit of going through all the items and making note of what I’d actually consider buying. This season hit a record low, 3-4 items max. Sure, the gore-tex jackets are solid, though you’d probably be better off with Patagonia or Arc’teryx at that price point. And the mohair cardigans are fun, but you’re better off just buying from Wacko Maria or Needles. The Vanson jackets look like a preschool classroom with sleeves; the style is all over the place and over-branded - it looks like a parody of itself.
I’m thinking back to my favorite Supreme items: s/s 2011 Schott Perfecto custom fit, Mohair Cardigans, f/w 2017 Flight Pants, the early backpacks. What these all have in common is that they’re basic, clean pieces. Good, durable design speaks for itself, and that’s what Supreme was at its conception - nice, stylish clothing, sturdy enough to hold up to the rigors of skateboarding. In the introduction to the Supreme Rizzoli, Glenn O’Brien writes “these things were all priced fairly and extremely well designed and manufactured… There was something about the thought, care, and quality that went into the clothes that reminded me of Hermès of Paris.” What Supreme, at the time largely manufactured by American company Brents Sportwear, offered was quality comparable to brands like Carhartt or military surplus, but with the assurance that the majority of profits were going directly into the pockets of people on the skate team or the employees who yelled at you in the store.
I don’t want to be a curmudgeon and say that Supreme was ruined by kids who listened to Odd Future and don’t skate - I was nearly one of them. But to teenagers, a couple hundred dollars for a jacket or pants is a steep price. Supreme has become, in a way, a status symbol. And much like Gucci belts and the Louis Vuitton monogram, excessive branding is the language of status. So we end up with the word “Supreme” printed on a sweater 30 times and the aforementioned preschool jacket. Looking again at the new season, the obnoxious prints, the fucking mesh backpacks, even the accessories, which are usually a consistent treat - it all feels tired. It feels like Supreme is creating overly flashy and weird designs to try and be special when in reality, creating simple and well-designed items is just about the most special thing a company can do.
There’s a lot of hate in this world. Garfield hates Mondays, Drake hates when girls turn 18, and me? I hate just about everything. This is a weekly column dedicated to the many and varied objects of my loathing. The goal is not to just sit here and say I hate things but to communicate my exact reasoning as to why because hate is unproductive, but hate with reason starts a conversation.
